Judgement
by Quan
Summary: A short-fic written when I got sick of too much WAFF (SI I guess)


When I woke up it was still dark out. Neither Asuka nor Misato was up yet. In fact, the latter's door was open, she had never come home. Not that this was new, all I cared about was that it was quiet; I could make my breakfast in peace.  
  
As I stood in the kitchen, heating a pan and getting a plate and food out, Asuka's door opened. She had her usual angry look and caught my eyes as soon as she stepped out. Likewise I was doing my usual, tired face with a frown. Her expression changed to a bemused smirk; goddamn her.  
  
She went straight to the table and sat down. I expected her to demand me to make her breakfast. In fact, I wanted her to, so I could be angry with her. But she was silent; playing smart. I didn't want to make her breakfast, but it made me mad that she didn't ask. My face was drawn tight, occupied with my thoughts. I had decided on scrambled eggs.   
  
After cracking one onto the pan I glanced up. She was looking at me intently. She didn't have that angry look, maybe call it curious. It wasn't a longing, pleading look for her breakfast, it wasn't want I expected. I looked back down at the pan and stirred the egg with a fork.  
  
She coughed lightly and I looked up again in anger. Say something, damnit, be Asuka. She had brought up her hand and turned her head to the side, resting on it, but now she looked back at me again; totally neutral. She was acting weird and I was angry.  
  
"Do you want me to make you breakfast?" My tone was slightly accusing, quiet and steady; it surprised me.  
  
It also caught her off guard, "No..." I waited. "...Were you going to?" She finished.  
  
I ignored her statement. "Why are you looking at me?" How bold I sound. I wondered how she'd reply, with a question of her own? Or would she say something about my eyes... finally admit how much she wants me. I wanted her to say that, but I also didn't. I hate her. Because she hates me, it's obvious.  
  
"I... I don't know."  
  
I looked back down at the egg and scraped the fork through the yolk one more time. Before I finished cooking I looked up one more time. She was looking down at her chopsticks. She looked bothered, or worried about something. I dumped the egg into my plate and carried it over to the table, taking my seat opposite her.  
  
She wasn't exactly being mean, but I was sure she'd revert any second. I was starting to get upset with her silence; I needed more data to figure out her mood so I could act accordingly. I finished half my egg before she spoke.  
  
"Do you hate me?"  
  
I was silent, I didn't know. Probably not... no, of course not! But I didn't look at her, didn't betray any of my thoughts.  
  
"I don't hate you," she said passively after a moment.  
  
What was she going after? God, I mentally slapped myself, I'm thinking too deeply. I looked at her shrewdly. She looked as if to speak again and I waited. But she remained silent and I looked down and finished my egg. I remained staring at my plate. It was Sunday, maybe Misato went somewhere with a guy... it didn't matter. We didn't have school.  
  
Suddenly Asuka pushed herself back from the table and walked in Misato's room. I watched with interest as she came out a minute later and went to her room, shutting the door softly behind her.  
  
I saw part of the newspaper from a few days ago and started reading it. I wondered what she was doing, preparing for an erotic coupling with the two of us, various shameful thoughts like that. I reproached myself for thinking them and returned to the paper.  
  
Naturally, the gunshot startled me out of my chair.  
  
I bolted to her door and pushed through, but didn't see her at first. There was an envelope on her futon addressed to me. As I walked to it I saw her legs sticking out from under her sheet by the wall. As I knelt down to pick up the letter I saw the rest of Asuka's body, it was worse than anything I had ever done with the EVA.  
  
I ran out of the room with the letter to call Misato. 


End file.
